


Suicide Girl

by pprfaith



Series: Vampire Character Studies [5]
Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV), Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate New Moon, Alternate Season 1, Alternate Universe, Assisted Suicide, Attempted Rape, Blood Drinking, Damon Salvatore being Damon Salvatore, Dark, F/M, Gore, Murder, PTSD, Past Relationships, Self Loathing, Stockholm Syndrome, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, The World's Unhealthiest Coping Mechanisms, This is really quite dark, Trauma, Violence, past abusive relationships, please heed the warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 07:13:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19988197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: In which Damon has an (un)fortunate habit of finding young girls with low self-esteem and killing them.





	Suicide Girl

**Author's Note:**

> This is the spirt child of _Lepidopterist_ in tone and _into the waves_ in subject matter and I have no idea what I was thinking when I wrote it. I do remember that it was meant to be longer than it is, but, but, but. I slapped on an ending, here we are. 
> 
> PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS.

+

He finds her in a dark alley somewhere in Washington, after a three week (month) sorority crawl across five states. 

Correction: it’s not really her he finds, so much as it is the fuckers trying to rape her.

There’s two of them, big, burly guys who haven’t picked up a girl without chemical help since the early nineties. One of them is bald, the other should be. Both have beer guts. They stink of cheap booze and bad hygiene and Damon wouldn’t eat them if you paid him money. 

Between them, on the ground, they have a sweet little thing, seventeen, maybe eighteen, pale skin, dark hair. She reminds him of Katherine in her sweeter moments, late at night, just before dawn. 

Her purse is ten feet away, phone dropped into a puddle of rainwater and city crap. Her hair is in disarray, like someone used it as a handle. Her blouse is askew, a few buttons ripped off. She smells of fear, of pain, of grief. And blood. There’s blood coming from her nose, staining her pretty lips.

Damon bets she tastes like cotton candy and chocolate. 

One of the assholes is kneeling behind her, twisting her arm cruelly behind her back. The other one is crouched in front, whispering filth at her. 

Her expression is blank, her eyes are big and dark and empty. Dead inside. 

Damon doesn’t think this is the first time someone hurt her. He doesn’t think she really cares that she’ll be dead by sunrise. 

Then the first guy leans in, licks a long, wet stripe up the side of her face. His partner chuckles. 

She turns her head, but not away from him, no, she leans into the gesture. Leans into it and then sinks her teeth into his ear. Hard. 

He howls like a fucking animal, rears back and punches her in the face. She topples sideways, twisting her arm further and screams in pain. 

Screams, and still finds the spite in her to kick out, catching the first fucker in the balls. Number Two yanks her backwards and her arm breaks with an audible snap. She screams again, short, cut off. She bites her lip, holds it in. Doesn’t give them the satisfaction. Good girl. 

Damon decides he likes her. 

He breaks the first one’s neck before he even knows he’s dying, rips the second one off her and pretty much tears his throat out. With his teeth. 

He was right. The waste of space tastes like shit. As soon as the heart stops beating he drops the sack of shit and takes a deep breath. Fuck. 

That was sloppy. There’s blood all over his face, jacket and favourite shirt. He wipes at it, realizes there’s bits in there, too, and gives it up for a lost cause. Instead he turns to look at the spunky little girl at his feet. 

She hasn’t moved except to sit up and cradle her arm to her chest. Her eyes are still wide, dark, dead. She stares at him like she’s waiting for something, doesn’t scream, doesn’t try to run. 

Face smoothing out, Damon crouches a little, safely out of reach of those well-aimed and well-shaped legs. He studies her and she studies him right back. 

Eventually, she licks her split lip and asks, “Are you going to eat me?”

Is he? 

“Nah. Just had dinner.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder at the two dead bodies. She follows his finger, blinks at the carnage and still doesn’t freak out. Weird, broken little thing. 

“Maybe later,” he amends, just to see what she’ll do. 

She nods. 

With a sigh, he stands, closes the gap between them and offers her a hand up. It’s bloody and kind of gross, but she takes it anyway. “Let’s get out of here,” he tells her, and whisks her away at vampire speed.

+

He has no idea why he takes her to his hotel room, but he does. Puts her down on his bed, puts his jacket on top of her when she starts shaking and then finds a relatively clean glass in the mess he left the night before. Whoops. 

Once he’s got one, he fills it up with cheap scotch, downs it in one big gulp, and then bites his wrist and holds it over the empty glass. Once the wound has healed over, he licks it clean and puts the glass on the nightstand next to her head. She’s been watching his every move since he put her down and she blinks at him in question.

“Drink up, babe,” he tells her. “It’ll heal you. Can’t imagine that arm feels very good.”

Then he gives a little finger wave and goes to clean up. He’s got rapist blood all over him and it’s drying tacky. 

The glass is empty when he returns. Good girl.

Her arm is already healed and she’s twisting it around, curious as a kitten. “I feel great,” she says when she sees him, sounding confused.

He gives a dirty swivel of his hips. “It’s all in the juice, baby.”

She giggles. “Are you going to eat me now?”

He’s about to answer, but then she runs her hands through her messy hair, trying to smooth out the dirty strands. One her wrist, something catches the light, sparkling like a diamond. 

A diamond shaped like teeth-marks. 

He catches her hand before she can drop it back into her lap, crowds her into the headboard and states, “You’ve met vampires before.”

As much as one can consider those walking, talking statues proper vampires. 

With a tug, she frees her hand from his and places it against his cheek, like a child stroking a tiger at the zoo. Doesn’t she know he’ll bite her limbs off?

(He thinks she does. She just doesn’t care.)

“They were colder,” she informs him, quietly. Her heartbeat hasn’t spiked once since he finished with dirt bag number two. 

Unable to help it, Damon laughs, rolling off her and onto his back next to her. “They’re fucking jokes, is what they are. You’re way better off with my kind, believe me.” He throws in a dirty wink, just because.

She giggles again. 

Then she shuffles down until she’s flat on the bed and tucks herself into his side like a baby koala. “Thank you,” she snuffles into his chest while he’s still kind of staring down at her, unsure where to put his arms, gawking in disbelief. 

He kills two people in front of her, she snuggles him. Damon Salvatore, creature of the night and body pillow. 

Fuck his life. 

By the time he’s over his shock and makes to dump her ass on the floor, she’s already asleep. 

+

“You’re wired wrong, you know that?” he asks from his perch at the foot of the bed. He moved away from her only a few minutes ago, and already she’s awake. Woken by the absence of the monster in her bed. His bed. Technicalities. 

She sits up, rubbing her face. Her scar shimmers in the low light and the bags under her eyes make her look dead. Her smile is a wan thing. “I know.”

“What happened to you, little girl?” he wants to know, idly. He sips scotch, waits for her. She studies her palms, her nails, the veins under her skin. Her heart beats too fast. 

“I fell in love with a vampire. But I was only a _distraction_.”

A pet. A con. A trick.

Damon laughs and it sounds like a hundred and thirty plus years of waiting in the dark. 

“And now what? You let yourself be trapped in dirty alleyways by rapists and murderers?”

She rolls her shoulders in a shrug. Says nothing. Yes. Without Katherine, Damon didn’t want to live. Without her vampire, this little ghost sees no point. 

With one arm outstretched, Damon passes her his drink. She accepts it and, after a moment of staring, gulps it down. Immediately, she starts coughing and choking and he laughs again as he slaps her on the back. She passes the glass back with an expression of distaste on her pixie face. It’s the most lively he’s seen her yet and he finds himself moving closer.

She still smells of fear and pain, but less now, overshadowed by something else entirely: blood. Her blood, that sweet tang at the back of his throat that he could barely taste in the alley, among all the shit and filth, but now…

Cotton candy and chocolate. 

He leans in, nose ghosting along her delicate neck, searching for the perfect spot by scent and feel, that place where her pulse jumps, just a little. Her breath catches, her heartbeat hums with urgency. 

She doesn’t move an inch.

“You fought them,” he mutters into her skin. If he stripped her bare, he thinks, he could trace her blue veins all the way back down to her heart. “Why aren’t you fighting me?”

The scent of her blood explodes across his sense, followed by a little gasp. She’s bitten her lip hard enough to draw blood. Instead of answering, she brings one hand up to tangle in his hair, taciturn permission to do as he pleases.

Her neck tilts invitingly. 

Damon strikes. 

+

He drinks from her, heals her, watches her sleep and fade and fade.

In between, he coaxes her story from her, the hole in her gut and the emptiness behind her eyes, all of it. Loved and abandoned, loved and abandoned, loved and abandoned and left for dead, over and over and over, mother, lover, family, best friend. 

He’d feel pity for her, if he still believed himself capable of it. If she didn’t bear it all with a strange grace, like a gazelle standing still in front of the lion, just for a second, anticipating its own death and not running. Somehow, this little girl manages to make being broken an elegant thing. 

It’s disgusting.

He feeds her fast food and asks her about her favourite books and never once does she ask what will happen to her, if she can go home, what he’s doing. 

She just talks, sleeps, lets him feed. 

Her complacency is almost annoying, at times, but whenever he gets angry, she just looks at him, all childish fascination with his eyes, his fangs, the veins. She asks questions. 

How old are you? Where do you come from? How did you die?

Damon finds himself answering.

On the news, the police declared her missing, presumed dead. Animal attack. A tragedy.

“My Dad wants to marry this woman, Sue. But he’s afraid it’ll hurt me,” she informs him, conversationally, while her father begs for clues and help on national television. “Leah and Seth love him. He’ll be okay.”

(Damon thinks the reason she doesn’t ask what he’ll do to her is that she already knows.)

“Family,” he snorts, playing with a strand of her hair idly. “Who the hell needs them?” 

She looks at him, turns her gaze onto his phone, which hasn’t rung once in all the time they’ve been here, and then back onto the news. 

Smart girl. He tugs on her hair, a little too hard and she comments on the weather, perfectly polite.

+

Her blood is divine. She tastes like she smells, but better, sweeter, fuller. Maybe he’s gotten used to boozed-up co-eds, but he thinks it’s her. 

She tastes the way his mother’s cooking did, so long ago. Before Stefan was born, before Katherine and vampires and spells. Before all the broken trust, the blood and death and hate. 

He shakes off the thought, pulling away from that delicious neck with a groan. Fuck, but that tastes fantastic. He flops onto his back, listens to her heartbeat pitter-patter away. It slows after a few moments and she leans over him, wipes at his chin with her thumb, look of distaste on her face. 

Fun fact: his little suicide girl can smell blood, the way a vampire can. And she hates it. By now she’s had his often enough to have built a tolerance, though, so she simply sucks her thumb clean, completely unaware of the things she’s doing to him. 

He hasn’t fucked her. Not even once. He wants to, but he did save her from rapists, so he figures it’d be in bad taste. Or something. 

Mirroring her, he swipes his own fingers along the mess of scabs and fresh wounds on her neck, licks them clean. He grins at her, aware that he’s made a mess of his face again. With her blood. 

She sighs. “I don’t know how much more my body can take.”

Jesus Christ.

Sitting up, Damon gives her a once over, wan and skinny, tired and dead inside, deader than when he found her. He hasn’t locked the door even once, has left her alone to shower, to grab food, to buy booze. She could have run a hundred times, but the only place he ever found her was right here, curled up in dirty sheets, waiting for him to come back and kill her. 

Because she sees no reason not to. “You don’t have a single ounce of self-esteem left in you, do you? You’d take anything I give you, because it’s more than you think you deserve.”

Because someone told her she was nothing, once, and the stupid fucking idiot believed it. 

She snorts delicately and sits, too, scooting away from him. “Unlike you,” she says, half hidden behind her drawn-up knees, braver than he’s seen her since that first night. “Right? You, who’s so lonely, that you have to turn to your _dinner_ for company.”

He’s on her faster than she can blink, has her flat on her back, looming above her, fangs extended and eyes dark. “Careful, little girl,” he snarls.

Her heart blips, patters, slows down again. She scowls, fierce as a kitten. “You don’t scare me, Damon,” she tells him and he _hates_ her.

Hates her. 

Hates that she’s right, that she looks right through him with dead eyes and _sees_. 

“Fuck you,” he mutters, disappointed in how pathetic he sounds. “Suicides don’t get to talk back.”

She grins a little, shrugs her shoulders as much as his grip allows. _What can you do?_

He lets himself slump, his weight on top of her, his face buried in her neck again. He doesn’t bite, just stays there, holding her down. Eventually, her hands find their way into his hair, stroking. 

They fall asleep like that.

+

Two weeks after he saved (damned) her, his phone rings. 

The voicemail gets filled up with Saint Stefan making demands. Come back, Damon, what are you doing, Damon, we need you here, Damon, come clean up our mess, Damon.

He listens to it once, deletes it and then flings the phone toward the end of the bed, where it bounces off the mattress and onto the floor. He turns toward her to crack some ugly, hurtful joke about how he does have someone, and how that means he wins. 

Ha!

She’s already looking at him when he turns, dark eyes behind a dark curtain of tangled, matted hair. Her gaze isn’t full of pity because he’s pretty sure she’s not capable to that much emotion, anymore, but – 

She gets close. 

He snaps her neck. 

It takes less than a second, no conscious decision, just her, dead inside and dying outside, broken and used and empty (by his hand) and looking at him like he’s something to feel sorry for, like having no-one at all is still better than having someone who doesn’t give a fuck, like she has any right to judge him, like she’s not just dead fucking meat walking, like a little romance a little heartbreak weren’t enough to wipe her out completely, like she isn’t pathetic, isn’t so goddamn fucked in the head she makes _Katherine_ look sane. 

Like he doesn’t hate her. 

Like she’s more than someone else’s garbage. 

+

The next time her eyes open, they’re black and angry and she lunges for the blood bag he dangles in front of her without thought or hesitation before tackling him onto the floor snarling, bloody and more alive than she was before she died. 

To vampires, everything is heightened.

“What did you do?” she demands, her thin reedy voice suddenly something stronger, something almost smooth. 

He tangles a hand in her hair, yanks her down until their noses are almost touching and smirks his sharpest grin. 

“I killed you,” he tells her, with teeth. “Just like you wanted me to.”

He snorts, shakes his head. Tags on, “Happy suicide day.”

+


End file.
